


Taming the Tomcat

by yamikuronue



Series: Queer Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Chronic Pain, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Trans Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-02-09 18:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamikuronue/pseuds/yamikuronue
Summary: Fenris can barely remember a time he didn't ache. Surely it must be worth it visiting a healer, even if it is that damned abomination. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

_Why do I bother even lying down?_ The dusky elf grumbled silently, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. He'd changed position a dozen times, but there was no relief from the pain to be had; lying on his back, his upper back ached, as did his neck where it touched the pillow, as did his arms. _I do this dance every night, why do I expect it to change?_

But rising was no better. As he rolled over, pushing himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, he anticipated the pain of standing. The ache in his joints, complimenting the ache in his very bones. _You're dying_ , said the little voice in the back of his mind. _Good,_ he replied, pushing the thought away. Let death come. What did he care? No-one lived forever anyway. A year, ten, a hundred; if they were years like this, he couldn't say he was particularly looking forward to may of them.

As he stood, pain flared in his left hip, deep in the socket. He stifled a cry, putting a hand out to steady himself against the nightstand. At least the pain was novel; every day, it found new ways to defy his expectations. But every day, it grew a little worse, as the tattoo'd poison soaked deeper into his muscles and bones. _I can handle this,_ he told himself. _It's nothing next to what dear old Master used to do._

As the pain in his hip faded, he began to move across the room. He hated every step he took: both for the pain flaring in his hip, and the slow, shuffling speed with which he crossed his small bedroom. Finally, he reached the dresser, opening the small box atop it... and scowled at the few shreds that were all that was left of his willowbark supply. _Have I been using that often...? This should have lasted me another week._ But he knew it was his own fault. His own weakness, his need for the tea to sleep. _Maker, I was a fool. And I still am._

Briefly, he turned back to the bed, giving it a longing glance. But no. _I won't sleep, so I may as well keep moving, keep my eyes open, keep wary. At least my blasted joints wouldn't stiffen that way._ He turned back to the door, grabbing his sword on the way out.

~*~

It was a nice night. The moon was full over Lowtown; there was just enough wind to stop the heat from being oppressive, to carry away some of the stench of the lower city. If he had to be awake, this was a nice night to do it.

Anders would still rather be asleep. _There's just so much to **do** ,_ he argued with his inner demons. _I won't be any good tomorrow if I don't get some sleep._

But the nightmares didn't care. _A world where mages are beaten bloody, whipped like dogs, forced into servitude. A world where you can never know love, because what love can there be when you are enslaved? A world where your son, Hawke's son, would grow up without the taste of freedom, either in hiding or in servitude his whole life. A world where you can never marry her, can never even dream of it, because you can never give her happiness, not really._ It haunted his nights, was beginning to creep into his days.

_I can't let it taint everything. The happiness I've found, it has to be enough. The people I help in my clinic, the work I do with Hawke, the dreams she has for reforming Kirkwall. That has to be enough._

But sleep refused to be had. Anders moved to the door to his clinic, watching the moon, waiting. _How long can I keep this up? How much more do I have in me before there's nothing left of Anders at all?_

A gleam caught his eye, drawing his attention to the street level. Expecting a thug, he reached for his staff, but stilled his hand when he saw the faint blue glow, the shock of white hair. "Fenris?"

"Mage," replied the warrior, sounding exhausted.

"What brings you here so late?" He forced a polite smile onto his face, expecting a torrent of abuse in exchange, but wanting to be the better man anyway.

"I didn't come to see you," sneered the elf, on cue.

"I didn't think you had."

The elf fell silent for a moment, looking down at his hand, at the tattoos there. When he spoke, his tone was inscrutable: "I have run low on supplies. I was hoping to restock."

_So he's here to insult me **and** steal from me._ Anders stifled a groan. "I'd be happy to help."

"I'm sure you would." Somehow, when Fenris said it, it was an insult.

"Anything for a friend of Hawke's." This took a bit of the defiance out of Fenris' shoulders, though he didn't reply with anything more than a nod. "Come inside."

"I'm not staying long," Fenris protested as he followed Anders into the clinic proper. "I just need willowbark, that's all."

"Headaches?" Anders kept his tone sympathetic, as he would with any other patient, no matter how intractable.

"No, Mage." The sneer was back. "I have suffered more pain than you could possibly imagine. All I'm after is sleep."

_He wasn't wounded recently -- and this doesn't sound like a recent wound anyway, the way he talks._ Anders felt real sympathy in his breast, hating himself even as he came to understand. "The tattoos."

"Yes, Mage. The tattoos." The cruelty in Fenris' voice had turned to mockery, undercut with hatred.

"Does willowbark help? With something that intrinsically tied to your life force, I would imagine it barely--"

"It takes the edge off." Fenris stopped; Anders turned to glance at him, reading anger and a hint of fear in his eyes.

"I could brew you something more tailored." _Maker help me, what am I doing? He's as like to bite my hand off as accept food from it._ A feral cat was an apt analogy; somehow, Anders found himself taking pity on the tomcat named for a wolf. _I really do have a soft spot for suffering creatures._

"Tailored?" Fenris' tone was peculiar without the sneer. He didn't meet Anders' eye, as though ashamed to be entertaining the idea; he glanced off to one side, over the mage's shoulder, his head slightly cocked.

_Maker, how bad is it for him if he's asking me for help? Not that he's really **asking** , mind. That'd be too human for him._ "When a particular magical effect is harming someone, often a particular magical remedy can--"

"This isn't magic, Mage." Now the sneer was back.

"You know that's not my name, right?" He couldn't help himself; Anders had about three 'Mage's in him for any given conversation before he lost his temper.

"What?"

"Mage. That's not my name. You see, every individual mage is assigned a name at birth, much like how not all elves are named Elf."

"I know your name, Mage," snarled Fenris. "Just hand over the willowbark and be done with it."

"Yeah, no." Anders ran a hand through his red-blond hair.

"What do you mean, no?" Fenris reached for his sword, narrowing his eyes.

"I mean, no. You can cut me down if you like, Elf, but if you come to me as a patient, I'm reserving the right to refuse an addict his fix."

"Excuse me?" Fenris closed his fingers on the hilt of his greatsword, ready to unsheath it from his back.

"You heard me." The two men stared into each others' eyes for a long moment. Anger simmered in the air between them, crackling like static, waiting only for favorable conditions to spark into a flame. Then, Fenris released the hilt of his sword, and Anders' shoulders slumped as he released the spell he'd been on the verge of casting in his own defense. "If you need willowbark to sleep, you're pretty far gone," he added, gentler. _If you're coming to me for willowbark, you're pretty far gone,_ he amended silently.

"I don't need the tea to sleep. I need to be free of pain to sleep."

"Then let me help you. You'll get some sleep, and I'll sleep easier myself without your addiction on my conscience."

The elf didn't agree, not quite. But he glanced aside, relinquishing the last vestiges of his anger as he did so. Anders took that as agreement, turned to lead him to a table. "I'll need to see them."

Fenris held up a hand. "Look all you like."

_Maker._ "Is that what hurts you tonight?" asked the redhead, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No."

"Then I'll need to see that part of your body."

Now Fenris gave him a hard look. "I know what you're about, mage."

"Medicine?"

"You're queer." It wasn't a comment about Anders' general personality, he knew; the elf wasn't call him offbeat or quirky, but deviant, unnatural. For a moment, his blood pounded in his ears, before he pushed the feelings away. _He didn't actually call me any of those things._ Bad as Fenris was, he wasn't one of the Templar who had held Anders captive.

Fenris was still looking at him, expecting a response. Anders sighed. "I find it odd how my relationship with Hawke matters less than the one with Karl."

"Keh." The noise was a dismissive grunt, from the back of Fenris' throat, his lips parted. "What care I for any of that nonsense?"

"Then explain your meaning, elf." Anders was rapidly losing his patience for these games.

"I've seen you looking at me. I won't strip for your amusement."

Anders opened his mouth to deny it, but closed it again. _Perhaps I have, once or twice, without realizing it. But how closely must he have been watching me to have seen it?_ "Regardless, I need to see your wound if I am to treat it. No amusement to be had, I assure you."

~*~

Fenris studied the mage in front of him, trying to read the emotion behind the man's implacable mask. He'd seen passion in those eyes before, when the man was speaking of supposed crimes against his beloved mages, so he knew the man was capable of showing more than he did. He was simply hiding his true face from Fenris out of mistrust. _Good. He shouldn't trust me to do more than take his head off._

Still, he didn't detect a sign of duplicity. It could be the mage was a better liar than Fenris expected -- abominations often had unusual body language, a result of some inhuman spirit piloting their human body. But he didn't see signs of that either. Anders seemed, from the outside, to be a perfectly ordinary human being, albiet an attractive one. _That's what makes him so dangerous._

And he had Fenris backed into a corner. The mage probably knew it, too; Fenris had nowhere else to turn, and Anders was around Hawke enough to suspect that. Hawke wasn't likely to spread his secrets as common gossip, but it was well known mages tended to trust each other more than people who had properly earned it, so it was likely she'd told Anders more than Fenris would have liked. That was one reason Fenris didn't tell her about the pain.

_What am I afraid of, anyway? If he tries to move on me, I'll gut him. Even Hawke can't blame me for that._ He tried not to picture the Champion's too-knowing eyes, focusing instead on the feel of a sheath at his back, the safety that came from walking around town armed.

The warrior gave a nod, resolving himself to his course of action, then began to peel off his trousers. He kept an eye on Anders' face, watching for any sign of his perversions, his twisted sense of right and wrong. All he found was dispassionate curiosity, a medic preparing to treat his patient. His face flushed, faintly. _He's good at hiding what he is,_ he begrudgingly thought as he climbed onto the table. _Better than any abomination has a right to be._

"And where does it ache worst?" was all the mage said, studying Fenris' legs.

"My left hip." The healer reached for him, and Fenris pulled away with a hiss. "Don't touch, idiot!"

A dark look flashed through Anders' eyes. _Don't like being insulted, do you, mage? Awfully proud of your demon-pact, are you?_ Fenris opened his mouth to sneer, but Anders cut him off. "It's painful, then?"

"Always has been." replied Fenris, a challenge in his voice.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Anders' tone was soft, pitying. Fenris found himself hating that worse than any cruelty.

"Don't be."

Anders sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. Well, I'll have to examine closely. Can I touch the skin beside your tattoo?"

"I'd rather not."

"Granted. Will it hurt you?" Anders' tone was getting firmer, if no sharper.

"Not much," admitted Fenris, hating how sulky his tone came out. _What am I doing? Why am I even here?_

"I'll be gentle." With no more warning than that, Anders' hands were on Fenris' leg, his thumbs stroking to either side of one bit of tattoo, his fingers finding purchase between lines of another portion. Fenris yelped, his skin warming to the touch -- not painful, not exactly, but warm, warning of the intense jolt that he knew would follow if Anders so much as brushed the tattoo. There was more than one reason he hadn't tried to get closer to Hawke, after all.

"Venhedis," the former slave hissed. His eyes slid off to the side, his muscles tensing in anticipation of that fatal slip-up. But the pain didn't come. Instead, there was only gentle, unyielding pressure as Anders peered closely at his skin, holding his leg still, turning it this way and that.

"Maker's breath, I've never seen a design so complex." Fenris recoiled from the almost awe-struck tone the mage took. _Of course, he thinks it's beautiful._ "This must have hurt like dragonfire."

"I don't remember." He braced himself for more pity, but in this, too, he was surprised by the lack of expected pain.

"Mm," said the healer, pulling back. "I can pull together a salve now, I think, that may offset the worst of it. It will have Lyrium in it, raw Lyrium. You're to apply it to the affected areas, and report to me tomorrow how the pain was against your expectations. Come right back if you have any strange sensations: tingling, numbness, or unexpected types of pain. Understand?"

Fenris frowned, but nodded. _I won't thank him. Not until I see if this poisons me first._

~*~

It was three nights later when Fenris next returned to Anders' clinic. Anders had wondered, from time to time, if the salve had worked, but realistically, he didn't expect the tomcat to return either way. Either it worked, and he had gotten some sleep, and it had not improved his mood nearly as much as the mage would have hoped; or it did not, and his mood had soured, and Anders was well rid of him. He had work to do, plans to draw up, investigation to carry out. There was always work to be done.

He was getting ready to close up for the night when Fenris came striding in, head high, looking for all the world like he belonged here. Anders gave a secretive half-smile, watching the warrior walk. Better. He wasn't favoring that leg so much anymore, was moving more evenly. _It must be working, then._

Before Anders could so much as greet the elf, Fenris walked up to him, thrusting a familiar jar at his chest. "Mage. You will apply this to my back."

"Pardon?" Anders raised an eyebrow, looking down at the jar, then back up at Fenris.

"You heard me. My back."

"Don't they have manners in Tevinter?"

Fenris' eyes narrowed as he reached for the sword on his back. "I could cut you down where you stand, Mage."

"That'd be even ruder." Anders kept his face as bland as he could, watching the warrior carefully. After a moment, Fenris' shoulders slumped.

"Please." His voice was soft, almost inaudible, but the surrender was clear enough.

"Very well, then. This way." Anders led him to a cot, stopping only to grab his latest purchase: a pair of silk gloves. Silk was an insulator of magic, allowing him to handle volatile runes or smother trap-glyphs without injury. He hoped it might work the same way on Fenris' brands, allowing him to apply the cream with minimal pain to his patient.

As Fenris began to remove his armor, Anders unscrewed the lid on the jar. _Maker, it's almost gone already? After three days?_ "How much of this have you been using?" he demanded, turning to the warrior.

Fenris looked startled, then narrowed his eyes, glaring back. "Enough to quell the pain, no more."

"You've used almost the whole jar."

"I have a lot of pain."

"I told you this has Lyrium in it!" Anders struggled to pull together the shreds of his patience, but the damage was already done.

"Not all of us will become Lyrium junkies, mage," he sneered.

"Do you think you can sneer your way out of addiction?" Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. _Deep breath. Stay professional._

"Those of us who are not weak-willed--"

"Oh that's rich, coming from you. All mages turn to blood magic, but you're somehow immune to Lyrium addiction? Because, what, you're better than me?"

Fenris took a step towards him, glaring all the while. "Clearly. I am not an abomination."

"No, you're just covered in Lyrium tattoos, in constant agony, and so bitter you can't accept help when it's right in front of you." Anders refused to cede his ground, not to the tomcat. If he faltered now, he'd never again be in the position to help him.

"Help? What help can you possibly be?" Fenris took another step closer, his eyes mere slits.

"I made you a cream! I am about to apply it for you! What more could you want?" _He really is a feral cat,_ Anders noted, as he shouted. _Ears back, eyes slits, tail lashing, but not **leaving** , or striking out._

"It was your kind that did this to me!" he spat, taking another step so he was right up in the redhead's face.

Anders grabbed for Fenris' chin, pulling it up to meet his eyes so he could see the truth in them. "Then why did you come to me?" Instead of shouting, Anders let his voice go quiet, steel wrapped in velvet.

"I had no choice!"

"Didn't you?" This close, he could practically smell the fear buried under Fenris' anger. _Maker, he's young! I never realized before. He's barely had time to be an adult, he's practically helpless around his emotions._

"Unhand me!" Anders didn't move, studying the elf's face, his lips. _I wonder how he tastes?_ It was an odd thought, out of place, dispassionate, as though he were doing an experiment, studying this strange creature. The strangeness of it frightened him. _Am I... falling for him? For **Fenris**?_ The man was attractive enough, sure... on the outside. Anders released Fenris' chin, his hand dropping to his side.

~*~

Fenris pulled back, toward the cot. _What is with him today? Is it the demon?_ But no. Anders hadn't done anything unusual, per se. He'd simply touched Fenris, his fingers spreading to either side of his tattoo. Almost thoughtfully, almost considerate. _Perish the thought. I would rather die than need a mage's pity._

"The salve." He tried to keep his voice brisk, but there was a waver in it he didn't like. _Maker, if my back only didn't hurt so badly!_ It was his upper back, the slow, cold burn having grown over the previous day and a half. Where he could reach, his shoulderblades and his mid-back, he'd found relief long since, but right between the shoulders he could never quite manage to spread the salve. _I'd do nearly anything to make it stop._

"Of course," Anders said, his tone professional. "Lie down, if you will."

Warily, Fenris sat on the cot, stretching out onto his stomach. He turned his head to the side, watching as the healer picked up a pair of thin gloves and pulled them on. Only then did he take a small amount of the salve, kneeling beside the cot and asking, "Where?"

"Between my shoulders," Fenris replied quietly.

The mage's touch didn't burn through the gloves; it only ached where he pressed onto the tattoos, and even that was muted. Slowly, Fenris let his muscles relax, the tension flowing out of them as he felt the hands move in small, gentle circles. As the pressure increased, he found his eyes drifting closed. _This is... nice,_ he admitted to himself. The pain from the touch was nothing compared to the usual pain in his muscles; the salve was cool and tingly against his skin, a pleasant sensation compared to the usual tightness and aching.

The mage didn't speak, simply kept rubbing gently, working his fingers into the muscles more firmly. It was painful, now, properly painful -- but each time his fingers moved, they left behind flesh that was more relaxed, less sore than before. It was pain that was worth it, like a fever that burned away illness.

Anders' hands drifted lower, tracing along his spine. There was no salve on them now, but Fenris didn't complain. His upper back had stopped hurting altogether, and that was worth a few liberties. _I'll stop him when he gets fresh,_ thought Fenris idly.

Those hands, those blessed hands, spread outward from his spine, slowly working loose the muscles in his lower back. Just shy of his butt, they stopped, lifted free. "Better?" asked Anders, his tone oddly husky.

"Better." Fenris meant it to come out sharp, firm, masculine. Instead it came out like a Magister who had just satisfied himself: a low, rumbling purr of a word.

"I'm going to keep the salve," Anders continued. This got Fenris' attention, and he rolled onto his side, lifting his head to glare at Anders.

"You shall not!"

"But in exchange, you come to me when it gets bad, and I'll treat you to a massage. Deal?"

Fenris narrowed his eyes, scowling at the mage. This was a trap. He was entirely certain there was an ulterior motive. And yet.... his back didn't hurt. Any of it. His body overall felt better than it had in weeks, if not months. Would it really be the worst thing in the world to have this more often?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tomcat goes drinking

Two pairs of boots treaded the cobblestones of Lowtown, heading for the Hanged Man. Carver, lagging a few steps behind, couldn't help but take note of the changes to the other warrior's movements. Part of his training with the Templars had been in reading people. It was the best way to understand both your opponents and your charges, both those enemies that would stand against the Chantry and those who were waiting for a chance to give in to temptation. Fenris hadn't moved this easily in months, if not years. He hadn't noticed the gradual stiffening over the past... however long it'd been, but today Fenris moved like a shadow itself.

"What have you been up to?" he wondered aloud.

"Hunting," replied Fenris, his tone grim as always.

Carver rolled his eyes behind the former slave's back. "I meant recently. You look better than you did last time I saw you."

"It's this new salve Anders cooked up."

Carver frowned, watching Fenris, waiting for an explanation which he knew well was likely to be slow in coming. If one ever did. _Anders? Not 'the mage' or 'that damn abomination'? They're getting awfully chummy for enemies._ Not that it was fair to call them such. Marian had united the two, though what his sister saw in an abomination Carver would never understand. "Be careful," he said at last.

Fenris turned, narrowing his eyes at Carver over his shoulder. "I know better than to trust an abomination."

"I'm sure you do," said Carver easily, with a smile. _The lad doth protest too much._

~*~

Anders steeled himself before taking a sip of his drink. As he'd expected, it was swill, barely above the grade he used to clean his tools. Still, he managed to avoid coughing out loud, which was a start, at least. _I'll forget the taste soon enough. This is exactly what I need tonight._

"Good, isn't it?" The woman at his side -- would that it were Marian instead! -- purred, leaning her chin on one hand. Isabela was hardly what Anders would call a friend, but she wasn't a bad sort. Probably. In any event, she came back when Hawke needed her, so that made her trustworthy enough to go drinking with at least.

"Tolerable," he managed, with a small wince.

"Then you're not drunk enough yet." She grinned at him, wiggling her eyebrows, but he couldn't bring himself to smile back. Not tonight.

The door swung open; Isabela glanced up, habitually, then smiled, giving an easy wave. Anders' heart leapt in his chest as he looked up, hoping it was Marian even as he chided himself for it. His hopes were dashed a moment later. _Of course it's the wrong Hawke. Meredith's dog. And -- is that Fenris?_

"Mage," nodded the elf as the pair came to sit. "Isabela."

"Hallo, you two," chirped Isabela. "Fancy meeting you here."

"What do you drink these days?" Carver asked Fenris. "On me. For old time's sake."

~*~

This was not at all what Fenris had in mind. He had hoped for a relaxing evening: an ale, a friend, some gossip about how awful mages were, the usual sort of thing. Spending an evening drinking with the abomination was last thing he'd considered. And yet, somehow, he couldn't bring himself to be as miserable and surly as he knew he ought. Somewhere, along the line, he'd gotten used to the mage.

_This is a bad look,_ he grumbled to himself. _You should go. Or throw out the mage. One of the two._

"--Wicked Grace?" Isabela said, catching Fenris' ear.

"After the way you cleaned me out last time?" Carver joked in reply.

"We could play for... other stakes." The pirate's voice was a low purr. Fenris could have told her not to waste her time; Carver had never shown himself to dally with women, not in all the time Fenris knew him. _They probably remind him too much of his sister,_ he thought, with only a little rancor. _Hawke would scare anyone._

"I don't think so," the Templar replied. _Damn if there's not a bit of squeak to his voice. Will wonders never cease?_

"Come on, don't deprive me of my only entertainment this evening," she pressed, leaning forward to show off her assets.

"How about shots? We could play for shots." Carver shifted a little in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.

"Bad idea," Anders cut in. The sight of his scowl brought one to Fenris' own lips. Before he could think better of it, he added his own comment:

"Why? Scared of losing, mage?"

~*~

"'d Bela go?" Carver slurred, raising a bottle to his lips. He wasn't _drunk_ -drunk, not yet. Not as drunk as he wanted to be, anyway, not after the day he'd had. It was just easier not to bother with whole words, not to bother about making enough sense, and just let his words dribble lazily from his lips like petals falling from a flower. _That's pretty gay,_ he decided, taking a chug from the bottle. _Maybe don't say that part aloud._

"Fucking." That was Fenris, his voice sounding personally offended at the prospect. _Shame. That ass deserves tapping._

"As if you'd know anything about that," Anders retorted. Carver rolled his eyes. Ever since Fenris had forced Anders into taking three shots in a single hand, no matter what he said, the mage had insisted on making it a competition.

"I've forgotten more about fucking than you ever knew, _mage_." Carver scowled, looking around to see if he could spy Isabela. _Maybe she'll fuck me? That'd be a nice change._

"I don't believe you." Anders' words were a challenge, but his face wore a smile.

"I don't care." Carver rolled his eyes again at Fenris' retort, finally spotting Isabela across the pub. Judging by the pair of pints in front of her on the bar, she'd gone to get refills. Judging by the tongue making a beeline for her throat via her lips, she wouldn't be back. _Much less gay. See? Marian's not the only clever one._

"Get a room," slurred Carver, to his bottle. Neither pair seemed to pay him any mind.

"Because you know you're wrong." Anders jabbed a finger at Fenris's face, earning himself a scowl.

"I am not."

"Oh yeah? Prove it." That caught Carver's attention; he glanced up just in time to see Fenris grab Anders' chin, pulling the mage's lips close and going in for a deep, hungry kiss. Carver sucked in a breath and held it, unable to tear his eyes away. _No. With a mage?_

A pair of dark eyes flashed unbidden before his mind's eye, set in a face no older than Bethany's had been.

Carver tore his gaze away, taking another pull from his bottle. _Maker take them both. Mage and mage-fucker alike._

~*~

Anders stared into the tomcat's eyes, his lips still tingling from the intensity of that kiss. He knew if he moved, so much as flinched, the cat would flee; he should never have met his gaze, the gesture too aggressive, but now it was impossible to look away. But those eyes, those beautiful green eyes, stole his breath away just looking into them.

Slowly, cautiously, he raised his hand, reaching out to cup Fenris' cheek.

That broke the spell; with a wordless cry of pain, Fenris swatted his hand away, jerking his head back and closing his eyes. A moment too later, Anders realized why. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you--"

"Well you did." Fenris pushed to a stand, his head still turned aside.

"Please, sit. Let me make it up to you."

"You can't." Fenris turned to go, stopping after he'd taken only a step; his hand came down on the back of his chair, almost casually, save for the stark white knuckles where he gripped the back, clearly holding himself upright.

"What hurts?" His voice came out sharper than he meant to, his lips pursing into a scowl.

"...My hip. In the joint. It... popped, when I jerked."

"Sit," he ordered, and Fenris obeyed, still not looking up into his face. _I'm going about this all wrong. First spooking him, now scaring him..._ "Breathe deeply. Let your muscles relax into it."

"It **hurts** , Mage."

"I know." Anders forced a placid smile onto his face, keeping his tone gentle. "But it will hurt less in a moment."

Fenris said nothing; Anders let him, watching the elf's posture in case he tried to flee. Slowly, over the course of a few moments, the warrior relaxed. A moment later, he looked up, caught Anders' gaze, and looked away again, his expression darkening. "Don't get any ideas," he warned.

"I won't." Anders smiled despite himself.

"I was just proving--"

"I am well aware."

"I would never have--"

"Fenris. I'm well aware what you think of me." The smile faded; a knife of guilt twisted in his gut, guilt and sorrow and pain. "You and Carver both."

_Carver..._ As if pre-arranged, both men looked to the lad. At some point -- during the kiss? After? -- Carver had slumped to the table, resting his head in his arms. Fenris sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "We'd better get him back to barracks."

Anders coughed. "You must be mad."

Now Fenris turned to scowl at him. "I can't manage alone," he snarled.

"And I can't walk into the Templar Barracks!"

Fenris sighed. "Hawke's?"

"Hawke's."

~*~

It galled Fenris not to be helping. He was no invalid; he prided himself on the strength of his arms. It wasn't even every step that sent a jolt of pain through his hip, down his leg; it was only enough of them that he was certain if he carried Carver, he'd drop the boy before they reached Hightown. So, holding his head high, he set to _guarding_ Anders while the mage had his arms full of sleeping Templar.

"This has to be the most embarrassing night of all time," he grumbled, sword out at the ready. He didn't intend for the mage to hear him; unfortunately, the man's reply left little room for his dignity.

"Not for me. That'd be the time I threw up all over Hawke -- right in the middle of professing my love."

Fenris snorted. "Too afraid?"

"Too drunk."

"Is this a habit of yours, then?"

Anders shrugged, despite his burden. "You're the one that kissed _me_."

"I did no such thing!" Anders turned and raised an eyebrow at him; Fenris felt the heat rush to his cheeks and was glad the night was so dark. "I merely asserted my superior skills."

"With a demonstration."

"Mage," he growled, eyes narrowing.

"I'm not angry." _Kaffas, is that abomination **laughing** at me?_ It sounded like it -- Anders' tone was playful, with a chuckle at the end. "Far from it."

"I would never take up with an abomination like you," Fenris growled. "Even if you weren't a mage, I'm no Magister, to go after someone else's property."

"So I'm property now, that's great," muttered the mage.

"You're taken, anyway."

"Only by Justice," was the glib reply.

Fenris felt a growl building in the back of his throat. "And Hawke."

Anders shrugged. "We're... something, anyway."

"Something." Fenris' tone was flat, letting his displeasure show.

"Something," agreed Anders, as they entered the square outside Hawke's home. "Knock for me? My hands are full."

Fenris rapped on Hawke's door, then stepped back quickly, taking to the shadows around the edge of the square. "I'll leave you to it."

~*~

Anders turned to call out to Fenris, but the warrior wasted no time beating a hasty retreat, and Hawke opened the door before he could think of a good objection. "Anders? What's--"

He turned back, shifting Carver in his arms. "Present for you."

Marian's confused expression dropped away into one of exasperation. She had sharp features, like her brother, but her face was more expressive than his -- or maybe she was just less... Templar-y. "Just what I always wanted."

"I hope so, given I've just hauled him all the way from the Hanged Man."

"Poor soul. Looks like Meredith's been feeding him."

"I could tell." He shifted Carver again, surprised the lad was still asleep. "Can I come in or shall I drop him on your doorstep?"

"Right this way." Hawke stepped aside, letting him into the front vestibule before leading the way through the central foyer where she kept her alchemical supplies and up the grand staircase. "You can put him in the guest room," she added, moving to open the door for him.

Anders laid the younger Hawke down onto the guest bed, stepping back as the boy turned, nestling into the pillow. _He really is young,_ Anders thought. _After all that fighting, after becoming a Templar, how is he so young? He makes me feel ancient._

He left the boy to sleep, closing the guest room door behind him. "I'll just be going," he began, as he made his way down the hall toward Marian.

"You can stay the night if you like," she offered. He shifted a little, uncomfortable under her gaze. She had _that_ look on her face again -- the look like she was evaluating him, the one with just a hint of pity around the edges.

"You're certain? I know your guest bed is taken."

"You look sad," she replied, her voice soft. "I want to help. I know you don't think we have a future together, but I don't see how that changes things in the here and now."

_If she knew what I was planning..._ He shook his head. "Perhaps some tea."

"Alright."

~*~

Marian set a mug of tea down before Anders, sitting with her own as she studied his face. He looked like a wreck; each eye had a deep, dark bag under it, showing how little he slept, and his skin was too pale, his hands clinging to the mug too tightly, as if to prevent them from shaking. If he knew how badly he looked, she was sure, he wouldn't have turned up at all. She didn't want to spook him; she didn't want him to think she was overly worried about him, but she was starting to fear for his health if he kept up whatever he was doing. _And he's a healer. He knows better. What has he been up to?_

"So, you went out drinking with my brother. That's new." Whenever Marian wasn't sure how to start a conversation, she tended to fall back on sarcasm. If nothing else, it tended to make people laugh, and that put them more at ease.

"It wasn't intentional. We just sort of bumped into each other."

Hawke arched an eyebrow. "Oh? So you were drinking alone?"

"I was _drinking_ with Isabela."

"Ah." Hawke studied Anders' face, reading the irritation on it plain as day. _He still looks so sad, despite the drinking. She must have seen it, and dragged him out._

"Don't look at me like that," Anders snapped. "I'm fine."

"I didn't say anything."

"No, but you were--" Anders stopped, running his palm over his face. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve this."

"No," Hawke agreed quietly. "But I'm willing to listen anyway."

She could see the struggle play out across his features: the small frown, as he rejected the idea of opening up to her; the soft, fond smile as he reconsidered; the scowl, the glance down at his hands, as he fell into his usual self-loathing spiral. As she was about to speak up, he turned away just a little, and spoke: "Meredith had the last of the mage underground arrested and executed today."

Hawke's eyes widened, her stomach churning in a mix of horror and anger. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"She has to be stopped." His plea was impassioned, earnest -- and familiar.

"I know," sighed Hawke. "But I can't just get rid of her. Someone would notice. I have to have a plan."

His face closed off, his expression inscrutable. "How long will you keep protecting her?"

"It's not like that," she began, but he cut her off.

"What will it take? Killing every mage in Kirkwall? Killing me?"

"You know I won't let her do that."

Anders scowled, pushing away from the table to stand. As she studied his face, Marian saw the change fall over him like a curtain at the end of a play: his expression went blank, inhumanly so, and his eyes took on an unearthly blue glow. "Justice must be served."

"...Anders?" Hawke hated how timid, how unsure her voice sounded. She was the Champion; she was supposed to know what to do, to know how to lead. Wasn't she?

"Justice," he said again, turning to look at her with those strange, pupil-less eyes. " **will** be done."

"I assume I am speaking to Justice now?" Hawke clung to her mug, trying to keep her tone soothing so as not to spook the spirit.

"You cannot get in our way. You **will** not get in our way."

"Justice, be reasonable. We're on the same side."

Justice said nothing, studying her with that blank expression for a moment longer before he turned to walk away. Hawke watched him go, hating herself as she did. _I won't fire on a friend. Not even one possessed by a spirit. Justice isn't a demon, after all. He may be... overzealous. But he's not **violent.** Anders will come to his senses in the morning._

_...won't he?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Am I an asshole?"

"Maker, but you're good at this," Fenris groaned, lying face-down on the table at Anders' clinic. Over the past few weeks, Fenris had appeared on a routine schedule, asking for a massage and trying to wheedle a jar of the cream to take home. Anders had denied him that, but had otherwise worked hard to put him at ease, to avoid offending him. And it had paid off: a compliment, rarer than a smile from the eternally unhappy warrior.

"Long practice," the mage replied wryly, with a smile. Slowly, he worked his gloved hands into Fenris's yielding flesh, kneading and tugging even as he spread oil across the man's tattoos.

"Of course, it's not like I have a lot of experience to compare with."

"Of course," replied the mage, smirking.

"For all I know, you're atrocious, abomination."

"Love you too, warrior." The words hung in the air between them as Anders realized his mistake. _Maker! I usually keep that last jibe to myself._ But what to do about it? Walk it back, make it clear it was a joke? He'd wound the man's pride. On the other hand, leaving it unremarked risked being taken seriously. _Would that be so bad?_

_You don't mean that,_ he argued with himself. _You're not looking for a relationship right now. You're not even looking for a casual fling with a bigot like that._

"I should go," said Fenris, beginning to push himself up to a sitting position.

"No, stay. It was a joke."

"Was it?" Fenris snapped.

"Of course it was."

"What do you mean, of course? You're... interested in that sort of thing."

"I have _standards._ "

Fenris narrowed his eyes. "Are you saying I'm not good enough for you?"

"I'm saying you're a mage-hating asshole who can't even muster up a thank you!"

Anders regretted his words the moment he said them. _Now he'll storm out, offended, if he doesn't stab me. Don't taunt the tomcat, idiot._ But Fenris... didn't. Instead, he looked stricken for a moment, his expression almost wounded, before he schooled his face back into a neutral mask, putting on a sneer. "Thank you, abomination. I'll be on my way."

_What was **that** about?_

~*~

"You don't think I'm an asshole, do you?" Fenris paced in front of Hawke's fireplace, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He stole a glance at her out of the corner of his eye as he did, watching her expression -- which seemed too careful, with a hint of mirth.

"What's this about, Fenris?" Her tone was calm, even. He hated it.

"Nothing. It's nothing. Passing fancy. I'm not, am I? An asshole."

"Does it matter?"

"You're not saying no," he growled, turning on his heel once more. "Of course it matters."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I'm not an asshole, that's why! Just because I can see through your petty mage games and your pretty mage lies, doesn't mean--"

"It's statements like that that really endear me to you, Fenris," she said wryly, stopping him in his tracks. He turned to stare at her, horror clenching in his gut.

"Fasta vass. I am an asshole, aren't I?"

"What's this about?" she asked again, her tone softer. "Did someone insult you?"

"Don't baby me," he muttered, starting to pace again. "You know I don't hate mages at least, right?"

Hawke said nothing.

Fenris groaned. "I don't spend time with you for no reason, you know."

"That's true," she said calmly. "But you've made your dislike of mages pretty clear."

"I don't _dislike_ mages. I'm cautious of mages. Wary of them, even."

"Because you think we're, oh, how shall I put this... all abominations who turn to blood magic at the drop of a hat."

"I don't see what knowing the truth about mages has to do with whether I like them or not."

"Fenris, you've known me for years! Have I ever once touched the stuff? Even thought about it?"

His scowl deepened. "I'm sure you've thought about it."

"What did I do to the last blood mage we ran across?" she demanded.

"...Killed him, I suppose."

"And the one before that? And the one before that?"

"So you're smart. So what?"

"So I hate blood magic as much as you do. But I can tell the difference between what someone does when they're backed into a corner, and what someone does when given a choice!"

Fenris stopped, turning to look at her through his bangs. "Backed into a corner? No Magister has ever backed into any corner he didn't choose to be in."

"Yes, alright, fine, things are probably different in Tevinter. But we're not _in_ Tevinter, Fenris. Look around -- really look. Who in Kirkwall has power? Who is abusing their power here in the Free Marches?"

He cut himself off, his mouth opening to give a retort. _This is **Hawke** ,_ he told himself. _I owe it to her to give it more than a few seconds thought. Alright. Here, in Kirkwall, who has power?_ "Orsino," he began, with a scowl.

"Maybe," she grants.

"What do you mean _maybe_ , he's the First Enchanter."

"And he's trapped in a Circle like all his mages, struggling for the right to exist under his own terms. But I'll grant you, fine, maybe the single most powerful mage in Kirkwall has some power. Who else?"

"Meredith," he says, begrudgingly.

"And?"

"Aveline, and the guards." This he felt more solid about. _The guards enforce the law, if they don't have power nobody does._

"If the guards have power, so do the Templars," said Hawke quietly.

"Then so do the mages."

"Do they? They can't leave. The Templars can kill them or... geld them at any point, for any reason. How much power is that, really?"

"They can do magic."

"And the Templars imprison and kill them for it."

"You're asking me to feel sorry for a bunch of mages?"

"Does it help to think of them as slaves?" Her tone was quite gentle now, her eyes pitying. He turned away from the power of that gaze.

"No." He began pacing once more, turning the matter over in his mind. _But the Templars do have power over them. They don't fuck them like slaves -- or do they?_ He couldn't help but picture Anders that way, laid out on a table before a Templar, a feast to be consumed. _It would explain a few things,_ he thought with a shudder.

"I don't mean to chase you away," said Hawke with a sigh. "But yes, I do think you're too harsh on mages. It gets tiresome, hearing your constant reprimands. I know better than to touch blood magic. I don't ever want to share my body with any sort of spirit."

"Good," he bit off, bitter.

"Do you want to go out? Get a drink?"

He thought about it for a moment, before replying, tone sullen: "Yes."

~*~

Yet again, Anders was left alone with his clinic, sure he'll never see Fenris again. _I'm an ass, such an ass,_ he thought, as he wrapped bandages around his fingers. He wasn't sure how the bandages had gotten into such a tangle, but winding them into neat little circles was soothing.

_Soon. Very soon, now._ Any minute, a contact was going to walk into his clinic, a contact promising just the papers he needed to finish his manifesto. _Will it be the purges, do you think? Templars love purges. Or maybe just the usual abuses of power._

_**After this, no delays.** _

_No, old friend. No more delays once I have the proof we need._

Hearing footsteps approach, he slid the bandages off his hand, placing the half-wound stack down in the box with the finished ones. He stood, dusting off his pants, then blinked as Fenris walked into the clinic, carrying a crate. "Fenris?"

"Here, mage." Fenris dropped the box before him with a small grunt.

"Is your back alright?" Anders asked, with a frown. _Are **you** alright?_

"I'm not a-- It's fine." Anders stared at the crate to avoid staring at the warrior. _I'm not sure what's more shocking: his presence, the fact that he brought something, or the fact that he self-censored._

"Alright," said Anders slowly. "What's in the box?"

"Supplies," the warrior replied, looking down at the crate. "For your clinic."

"What, really? Where did you get this?"

"...possibly, stolen." Anders looked up at Fenris' face, but he wasn't meeting the mage's eyes either. "Possibly from the Templars."

"Well. Thank you." Anders smiles, holding out a hand for Fenris to shake.

Fenris eyed the hand like it was going to bite him. "You do good work here, mage. Sometimes."

"That means a lot, coming from you."

Now Fenris took his hand, gripping it firmly. "Truce?"

_We were at war?_ wondered Anders. "Truce."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain

_A **Dragon.** Hawke buys a stake in a quarry and it turns out to be the nesting grounds of a **dragon**._ Fenris fell into bed, his thoughts equally disgusted and amused. _Only Hawke._

He wasn't nearly as cheerful when he woke the next morning. Every bone in his body ached; he felt as though he'd been pummeled into the ground repeatedly by the beast, rather than managing to avoid the worst of the blows and healed afterward. _Kevesh, what is **wrong** with me?_

_Nothing for it -- I have to get up._ Fenris rolled his hips, using the momentum to half-fall onto his feet. The pain rose up and overtook him; his vision swam, not that he cared, with every bit of his skin alight with pain at once. He was never certain later if he lost consciousness or merely ceased to notice anything but the pain for a brief time. When he came back to himself, he was collapsed in a heap on the floor.

_Festis bei umo canavarum_. He knew to stand would mean a repeat of that searing pain -- and yet, not to stand would mean lying here until he was found, which could be days. Days in which his bladder would betray him time and time again, in which he would suffer for lack of water. _But what choice have I? I cannot stand -- if it were just willpower, but no, I fell last time I tried._

He could feel the tension, the first blush of pain, almost but not yet fully realized, waiting for him to move again. If he could get that to back off, if he could ease his strained muscles, he could get back into the bed, and perhaps not cramp so badly. He tried to breathe into his muscles, letting them loosen -- only to yelp as the pain flooded his back the instant he relaxed even a hair. _This is how I die. Alone, on my bedroom floor, in my own piss._

"Fenris?"

_Oh, and Hawke will be there. Perfect._ He let out a groan, attempting to push himself upright only to yelp with the pain as his back spasmed. A moment later, he felt Marian's hands rest on his shoulders. He opened his mouth to warn her off, but before he could speak, white-hot pain like lightning shot through his tattoos.

~*~

The next thing he noticed was the feel of his sheets under his skin. _How did I get to the bed?_ A moment's focus and he made out the conversation going on quietly in the room with him, the sounds of pacing footsteps across the room.

"Treating him for what? Anders, what's going on here?" _That'll be Hawke. And probably how I got to bed._

"Healer Confident--" _A male voice -- is that Anders? Damnation._

"Andraste take your confidentiality, he was collapsed on the floor!" _She's considerate enough to keep her voice down, at least. Though whispers are rather loud. Not much for stealth, mages._

"Go home, Hawke. I'll take over his care from here."

"No way. I'm not leaving him like this." _I'd better say something._

Fenris opened his mouth, doing his best to assure Hawke that he was fine -- but what came out was a muttered groan of pain as his back seized, reminding him how he ended up on the floor. Both voices stopped, and a moment later, Hawke's face was peering down at him while the woman kneeled beside the bed.

"Fenris? Are you alright? Can I help?"

"Don't heal him!" snapped Anders, a step behind. "It'll react badly with his tattoos. I have a salve he can use instead." _Ah, good. That must have been what hurt so badly before._ Content that the earlier experience wasn't about to repeat itself, Fenris lost his hold on consciousness, drifting back into slumber.

~*~

Someone was stroking his hair -- one of the few places Fenris could stand to be touched, as his tattoos did not extend to his scalp. Normally, he'd have scowled and cursed, tugging his head away from the offending hand. But... it might hurt, moving. And really, it wasn't so bad. It felt almost pleasant, being touched like this. He could get used to it. _Maybe Hawke isn't so bad after all. For a mage._

He decided to play it casual, to greet her as if he'd just met her on the street. "Hawke," he said, his voice as level as he could make it.

"She's just stepped out." Fenris' eyes snapped open, but it was too late: he knew that voice. _Why-- Anders?!_ The strawberry-blond was the last person Fenris expected to see sitting on the edge of his bed, stroking his hair. And yet, he felt a little guilty, a little ashamed of himself for not guessing correctly. Anders had been so kind to him thus far. Was it really that surprising that he'd be gentle now?

"Mage," Fenris grunted, not able to -- quite -- use the man's name.

"You gave us quite a scare," said Anders gently. "How are you feeling now? Any pain?"

"No," the warrior admitted. "But I haven't moved yet. My back seizes up."

"Do you think you can get onto your stomach? I have some cream here," began the healer. Fenris sighed.

"Yes. If I have to." _For that salve, anything._

"If you wait a moment, I can put on my gloves and help you."

Fenris felt a habitual sneer come to his lips. "As if I needed your help, mage."

Anders only sighed. "I'm not your enemy." His tone was quiet, subdued. "I never have been. I wish you could see that."

The anger melted out of Fenris like snow off the mountaintops in spring. "I know," he replied, unable to meet Anders' eye. "Sometimes it's hard to remember that. To remember that it's you and not--"

For a moment, the healer didn't reply. _I've pushed too far. He's going to turn on me._ Just as the warrior was about to speak, however, the mage spoke again: "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It?" Fenris snapped.

"Whatever happened. Whoever hurt you." Fenris hated that pitying tone in Anders' voice, that too-gentle verbal caress.

"I was a slave, and useful to the Magisters. You put it together."

"I don't know much about Tevinter." Fenris had to open his eyes then, to see what kind of face the mage was making. He closed them after only a glimpse of pity.

"You'd love it. All the debauchery and abominations you could ever want."

"You were raped."

Fenris swallowed back bile at having it laid out so plainly. "I was a slave. You can't rape a slave. They're not people."

"Mages in the Circle are treated much the same," admitted the healer. "Some of the Templar took advantage of the Tranquil. Others preferred more... lively prey."

"Is that where you learned it? From--"

"I would never." There was a hardness to Anders' voice that stopped Fenris dead in his tracks. "Whatever you may think of me, Karl loved me. It was different."

"Love." Fenris loaded as much derision as he could into the syllable.

"Love can exist between men." The mage's tone was back to gentle, kind. "Sometimes even in the most unlikely circumstances."

~*~

Anders watched Fenris' face carefully, looking for a sign -- any sign -- that the warrior had understood. Was he being too forward? Or not blunt enough? Had he overplayed his hand, or was his suit welcome?

This was usually the most nerve-wracking part of a courtship for the mage. He'd never gotten along well with his fellow mages; he'd always been focused on escape, on freedom, on philosophy and revolution, while many of his fellows were fatalistic, preferring to remain un-Tranquil by any means necessary. It had proven to be a gulf between them, one he only rarely bridged before he found other mages in hiding outside the Circle. The chances of being misunderstood were usually so great that he didn't dare try and profess any tender feelings, even with those less likely to reject him than Fenris. And yet...

When Hawke had run into his clinic, pale as death, he hadn't thought twice before grabbing his staff and heading to the door. Upon her garbled explanation that it was Fenris who needed him, he'd flat-out run to the warrior's home. Finding him insensate on the ground, in a puddle of urine, had been one of the worst moments of his life.

When he'd realized that Fenris was still breathing, it had been the first time in a long while that he'd felt wholly like himself. He'd felt small, dwarfed by the magnitude of his feelings for the warrior. He'd questioned himself, questioned his dedication to the cause if it had caused him to miss the signs leading to this collapse. Once he'd gotten the warrior cleaned up, changed, heaped into the bed, he'd made up his mind: he was going to make an offer, a real offer, even if it only lead to heartbreak.

But his beloved tomcat wasn't reacting. Wasn't saying much of anything, really. Doubt crept up inside Anders: was this even worth pursuing? Was this going to delay the revolution, for what, his own human sensibilities? Surely freedom for mages was, had to be, more important than mere compassion, mere lust. He was on the verge of retracting his statement, playing it off as a joke, when the warrior spoke:

"What are you trying to say?"

Anders could picture him as a literal tomcat: ears back, tail lashing, but not hissing, not taking a swipe. Wary, guarded, but listening. The healer took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "If you are... amenable to such, I have an... interest in you. In your wellbeing. In..."

"I know what your interest is, mage." There was the sneer back again. Anders sighed, turning away.

"Alright. I'll just get Hawke for you."

A hand lashed out, grabbed his wrist. "I didn't say _leave._ "

Anders' heart skipped a beat. "So what are you saying?"

There was a pause. "I'm no-one's slave or fucktoy," began the elf.

"A promising start."

Fenris scowled. "I'm serious."

"As am I. Since I'm not looking for a slave -- of any sort -- I have no qualms with this declaration."

"I make no promises."

"I'm not looking for promises."

"Then what do you want?"

By way of answer, Anders leaned over. _I'm going to get bit._ He paused, but only for an instant. _I don't care. I'd always regret not doing this._ Then his lips met Fenris', and everything was bliss.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tomcat falls in love

The mage smelled of sandalwood and sweat. It was a strange smell to associate with a mage; the Magisters had always smelled of perfumed oils and soaps. There was a ruggedness to Anders, from the spray of ginger stubble over his firm jaw to the roughness of his hands, that Fenris found exotic, oddly enticing. He didn't think he would ever be able to make himself be with a man after what had been done to him, but every day it got a little harder to associate Anders, his Anders, with the Magisters.

Kissing wasn't something he was used to. When the magisters had used Fenris, he had been treated as an object, something to be taken and used, not something -- someone -- to cherish. He could hardly get enough of it. The feel of Anders' hand entangled in his hair, the soft little noises the mage made as he kissed the warrior. The way he kissed him hungrily, as though he were drowning and the only air was within Fenris' mouth. The way he would push him up against a wall roughly, but never hurt him, never take what he wanted -- just make it clear he could, if he so chose.

Fenris wasn't sure where to put his hands when the healer did that. Sometimes, he kept them high, clinging to the man's broad shoulders and back like they were a life raft. Other times, he lowered them, cupping his behind, digging in his nails. That usually elicited the little moan he loved so much.

Not that he loved Anders, or anything. Just the noises he made. Of course.

Anders pulled back, letting out a small groan of satisfaction as he did. "I have to get back to work."

Fenris reached up, almost touching Anders' cheek before he let his hand drop. "Well. Don't let me stop you."

Anders closed his eyes, letting out another whimper. "What if I want you to stop me?"

"All the more reason not to," Fenris replied with a smirk. "Your suffering amuses me, mage."

"Does it?" Anders' voice took on a dangerous new tone: lower, half-growled, as his eyes opened partway to glare at the warrior. "Sounds like someone needs to be reminded of a few things."

Fenris no longer felt like smirking, but he didn't let it stop him. "Such as?"

By way of reply, Anders pushed him against the wall again, covering his mouth with his own, his tongue forcing its way into Fenris' mouth. This time it was Fenris' turn to moan.

~*~

_To hell with the clinic._

It wasn't the kindest thought he'd had, but Anders refused to be shamed into another minute of self-sacrifice, self-denial. Wasn't he already giving everything for the cause? Wasn't he prepared to die if it meant helping the mages of Kirkwall breathe just a little freer, if it saved even one of them from the fate that had befallen his beloved Karl? Those hoping to be treated at the clinic could wait a little longer while he stole some small happiness for himself, surely?

He'd been thinking about his tomcat all day: the way the corners of his mouth quirked upward when he thought he was being clever, the confidence in his voice and the uncertainty in his hands. He'd caught himself daydreaming about the exact heat of his skin, the taste of his sweat, the width of his hips. The warrior's behind was firm, flat, and the healer could place his thumbs on the man's hips and almost touch his fingers together. He'd tried, more than once.

Now, he cupped the dusky man's ass in his palms, giving him a little lift to encourage him. As he'd hoped, his tomcat wrapped himself around him, allowing him to carry him over to the bed. When they'd first started coming here, he'd ribbed the man about how he kept the place: filthy, as though he only lived in a few small rooms, and couldn't be bothered to clean the rest of it. But it was larger than his clinic, and considerably more private. He didn't so much decide he didn't care anymore as just... stop thinking about it.

He'd stopped thinking about a lot of things lately. Why worry, when he had his enticing, delicious tomcat to daydream about?

He sat Fenris onto the bed, only breaking the kiss once the elf was settled. "Stay," he ordered, before backtracking to his satchel by the door and palming the vial within. _Just in case_. Then he retured, before his cat could get restless or wander off, reminding him where his loyalties lie with a kiss right in the sweet spot between his neck and his shoulder.

"This is hardly discouragement for bad behavior," Fenris purred, eyes drifting shut as he kneaded the bedcovers out of sheer enjoyment.

"Who said anything about discouragement?" Anders' voice was husky as he whispered in his lover's ear, his trousers suddenly uncomfortably tight. The moan Fenris made in reply didn't help that matters any.

Anders kissed his way along Fenris' jawline, planting a firm one on his lips. Instead of pushing his tongue in, however, he gripped his back gently and laid him back onto the bed, never breaking the kiss. "Do you trust me?" he murmured, when he stopped for air.

He felt Fenris go tense under him. For a moment he considered kissing him again, moving forward regardless, but he hesitated long enough that the idea seemed distasteful, so he pulled back just a touch. "Fenris?"

"A moment."

~*~

Fenris' trousers were too tight, his dragon straining against the leather to get free. At the same time, the question had thrown him. _What does he mean, do I trust him? What does he plan? What kind of question is that?_

The obvious answer was sex. Fenris knew all about sex, knew all the ways a man could be hurt and used and broken down over the years by callous, unkind masters. Never had he experienced this level of yearning, this deep desire to be touched, held, known. He would give up a lot of trust to have that need filled. And yet... and yet...

_Do you trust me?_ Four simple words, and somehow so hard to wrap his mind around. What was worse? That Anders had dropped that on him in the middle of.. whatever it was they were doing? Or that he couldn't immediately say no?

Fenris took a deep breath, let it out. _Fuck it, then. I'm not going to let those accursed Magisters ruin the one good thing in my life. Not anymore._

"Alright." He opened his eyes, scowling up at Anders. "You win, mage. Do your worst."

The next few moments were familiar. Anders' lips, his tongue, the urgency with which he kissed Fenris, was all so deliciously, intoxicatingly familiar. The hand unbuttoning his pants, freeing his dragon, was also familiar, though from a very different context. Fenris' heart beat faster, pounding in his chest. _No. I will not let you define me!_ He threw his arms around his lover, pulling him closer in defiance of the fear rising in his chest.

Anders pulled back a moment, fumbling with a vial. He was back before Fenris had time to miss him, his slick, damp cock pressing against Fenris' body, hard and ready. "Breathe deep, little tomcat," the mage whispered in his ear. "Are you ready?"

He wasn't. He was. He refused to back down. He was never ready, not for the pain and tearing he knew would ensure. Fenris swallowed, then breathed deeply. _I'm choosing to do this. This is my desire._ He gave a small nod, bearing down as he had learned to do when he felt the pressure at his entrance. He braced himself, expecting a firm, sharp push, a tearing, a series of increasingly urgent thrusts. Expecting, in short, to be _used_.

Anders gripped him no less urgently than the magisters had, but he didn't thrust forward. Instead, he eased his way gently, an inch at a time, letting Fenris breathe between pushes. Done gently, his cock slick, Anders didn't hurt Fenris at all. Slowly, the warrior began to relax, to breathe into his muscles, letting the mage further and further inside him, until nothing separated them but their own skin. Anders claimed his mouth once more, and began to rock back and forth, grinding his hips against Fenris' pelvis. To his surprise and delight, there was _pleasure_ in it -- not just service, not being used, but enjoyment. He wanted more, wanted to be filled, wanted to belong to the mage in a way he'd never wanted to belong to anyone before.

He let out a moan, his legs locking around Anders' hips as he pulled him forward. Anders took the cue, moving faster, thrusting harder into him. To his amazement, Fenris found himself finishing, gripping the covers tightly as he threw his head back and shouted defiance to the empty room. Anders finished a moment later, with a few rough thrusts, collapsing on top of him, their bodies both slick with sweat. It hurt -- gods how it hurt. But he didn't care. Not now.

_This might not be so bad after all,_ he thought, as he reached for Anders' hand.

~*~

His tomcat was practically purring.

Anders watched Fenris' eyes drift closed, lifting himself off the warrior's tattoos. Fenris hadn't complained, but better safe than sorry, and this way the mage could watch his muscles relax. _He's never been this content, this laid back, in the entire time I've known him,_ he mused. _This was good for him. I'm good for him. I made the right choice._

It didn't last long. He pulled free of the warrior, stroking his hair gently; moments later, he felt the cool numbness starting to come over him once more. He wanted to spend longer here, with Fenris. He wanted to wait. He wanted...

It didn't matter what he wanted. Justice was calling.

~*~

"Fenris? Fenris, wake up."

_Hawke?_ The mage flinched away before the hero could touch him, suddenly keenly aware of his nudity. _Merciful maker, how long have I been curled up like this? I must have fallen asleep._

"Good, you're up. Get dressed. Anders has some stupid plan."

_Anders?_ That snapped Fenris right out of his comfort. He pushed himself upright, ignoring the ache in his bones as he grabbed his trousers off the floor. "What plan? What's going on?" _At least she's too focused to have noticed my--_

"Hey, Elf. Someone had fun."

Fenris' back stiffened as he heard the gruff, dwarven voice. He finished pulling on his trousers, throwing armor on over his bare chest, refusing to rise to the bait.

"Alright, alright, I get it. You're still addled by the whole experience. Haven't had a chance to replace the stick that's normally there, I guess."

"There is **not** \-- Vishante kaffas, do you _ever_ shut up?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

Sheathing his sword, Fenris cleared his throat, stepping up beside Hawke. "Ready. What's the problem?"

It was Varric who answered him; Hawke simply started leading, that tight, controlled expression on her face that meant someone had stepped in some deep shit. "Blondie's apparently got some plan to free the Circle mages. Apparently he thinks it's brilliant, but I figure if you have to resort to a crutch like, oh, I don't know, _explosives_ , your plan wasn't great to begin with. But what do I know?"

"Explosives?" Fenris was well aware he sounded like an idiot, repeating back what was said to him, but he didn't much care. What did a healer need with explosives?

"We don't know that for sure." Hawke's voice was tight, pinched, and she walked just a bit faster as she spoke. "All we know is he's missing and Orsino needs backup."

"We definitely know that for sure," Varric corrected, behind one hand. "Number one, he's made a bomb recently and we don't know what he's done with it, and number two, Blondie's gone a little..." He whistled, two notes that somehow conveyed the idea of 'crazy' without speaking the word.

"He was fine this morning," Fenris snapped, instantly regretting it.

The dwarf lifted his hands, palms toward Fenris, in a placating gesture. "Hey, whatever you two get up to in your spare time is between you. I'll just refer you to the ancient Dwarven wisdom passed down from my forefathers since time immemorial: don't park your dragon in a nest of crazy."

"He's not crazy." Fenris' temper flared; he tamped it down as best he could.

"Whatever you say, Elf." Varric seemed inclined to leave it at that, at least for a block or so. Then, casually, he added, "of course, there's Justice to consider."

Fenris' eye twitched. "I know he's an abomination."

"Sure, sure, course you do. But it's changed him quite a bit of late."

"Has it? I hadn't noticed."

"Well, I can't speak to that. But I've noticed. He's no fun anymore. Solemn, driven. No time to relax."

Fenris frowned, thinking over their interactions. Anders had been the opposite around him: warm, gentle, all play and no work. Desperate, at times; at times, clingy. He'd sought out Fenris like there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to taste the elf's lips. How could he be so different around Varric?

Which was the lie?

~*~

The healer's hands finished packing the jars in place, surrounding them carefully in straw. No jolt would set them off before the appointed time. Nothing could stop the revolution. Nothing would stand in the way of Justice.

But his mind was elsewhere -- dreaming of Fenris' lips, of his moans, of the warm tight feeling of being inside him. Usually during these moments he was nowhere; an hour would have passed with no recollection. But he clung to consciousness now, refusing to go into the white void. There was so much to unpack, so much to think about, to feel. So much life to be lived. So much--

But he was going to die. Anders was going to give his life for the cause, for the mages. He would be branded a villain, arrested, killed, in the desperate hope that the mages would finally be forced to engender the revolution they so desperately needed. _It will be better for them after. I have to remember that. It will be better for mages, all mages everywhere, after I am gone._

But what about Fenris?

"Forget the elf." It was his voice that responded to his thoughts, but it wasn't him -- distant, cold, emotionless. In the beginning he had been looked upon as strange for speaking to Justice aloud, had had to learn to use his inward voice instead. Now, Justice spoke to him using his vocal cords, and he was the one replying in silence.

_I know you're right. I know. And yet..._

"The elf is meaningless. Just animal urges. This is the more important duty."

But sometimes he wondered. When Hawke had refused to help, he'd snapped at her, accused her of abandoning him, of never having cared about the cause. She'd given him that sad look and told him quietly, "This isn't about justice. This is pure vengeance."

Justice had denied it. How could he, a spirit of pure Justice, ever do anything unjust? Ever even suggest such a thing? Still, at times like this, Anders wondered.

The healer's hands tucked the last of the strange, red-colored lyrium into the center of the cluster of jars. His hands went through the motions, laying down the runes that would trigger the revolution. Nothing would stand in the way of Justice.

~*~

The sun beat down on the exposed courtyard. Fenris stood a little apart, letting Hawke deal with the argument at hand. It was yet another rehash of the same fight they'd been having for months: Meredith wanting to exert her legal and moral authority, and the abomination-in-waiting simpering about his rights. Likely Hawke would side with the magister, as she had before. It wasn't his place to argue, though some days he wanted to strike her for her naivety.

Across the courtyard, Carver, Isabela, and Aveline darted into view. _Great, more fuel for this fire._ They'd picked up Merrill on their own way here, meaning every one of Hawke's companions was present except--

A flash of red-blond hair in the shadows caught Fenris' eye. What was _he_ doing _here_ if he hadn't come with them or with Carver? Letting the trio bicker, he slipped away, making his way toward the healer.

Anders put up a hand to stop him as the warrior came close. "Not now." His voice was oddly distant, with none of the usual warmth Fenris had come to expect.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed back.

"Not. Now."

"What do you mean, not now? Anders, it's me!" Fenris searched his lover's face for any sign of recognition, but saw only those too-blue eyes, shining with an almost unearthly light. _Could it really be true? That Anders has fully become an abomination, losing all sense of himself? He was fine this morning!_

"Justice will be done."

Fenris didn't think twice. He went up on his toes, grabbing for Anders' hair, pressing his lips against his lover's firmly, desperate for any sign the man he loved was still in there. _Maker, please, be in there._ For a heart-stopping moment, his lips were stiff, unyielding; then, without warning, they melted into the kiss, and his large hands pulled Fenris in closer.

When the warrior pulled back, Anders' eyes were no longer glowing. Instead, he wore a look of confusion, as though he'd just woken in an unfamiliar bed. "Tomcat?" he murmured.

"Anders, are you alright?"

"I-- no. No, this isn't-- I have to go." He let go of Fenris' waist, running a hand through his hair as the warrior stepped back another pace.

"What's going _on_? Varric said you had a bomb?"

"For the Chantry, yes," murmured Anders. Fenris' heart nearly stopped in his chest. _He's... going to blow up the Chantry?_

"I can't let you do that." He hated the sound of his own voice: hard, cold, distant. The voice of an assassin. The voice of a slave.

"You don't understand. It's the only way to bring justice to the mages, to start the revolution."

Fenris searched his lover's face once more. He didn't look possessed, nor was he glowing. He looked like himself, the way he had that morning. And yet... "All mages turn to blood magic," he murmured slowly, as the truth rose in his mind like the sun over the mountains. _Anders was an abomination the day we met. There was never any hope for him, not really. Man was not meant to harbor demons, not in his own flesh. Maker. Was he ever sane at all? Or just able to pretend when I was around? Did he even care, even once?_

"I understand," he said, louder.

"Then you'll help?" The hope on Anders' face cut Fenris like a knife.

"Yes, I'll help," he said quietly, unslinging his sword from his back. _I did love you, at least a little. For what it's worth._

"Thank you, my beloved tomcat," said Anders, smiling in relief.

The smile never wavered, not even when Fenris slid his sword into Anders' heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter after this, I think! Almost done


	6. Epilogue

The walls of the courtyard stood so high overhead, it felt like they were indoors. Fenris had never paid any attention to them before, during the few incidents he'd had cause to be here. It felt appropriate, being in a place called The Gallows. He felt like there was a death sentence over his head.

"Where _were_ you? Where is Anders?!" Hawke hissed.

"Gone." Fenris stared at his hands. There ought to be blood on them. There wasn't; the sword was long, and bodies were thin, and the grip protected his hands from any carnage. But there should have been.

"Gone _where_? I know he had something to do with all this, if he's--"

"Gone." Fenris looked up, importing as much gravity as he could into the single syllable. Hawke blanched, her eyes widening.

"Merciful maker! Did you--?"

"Yes." Fenris bit the word off. "I killed him."

" _Why?!_ "

"He was an abomination. What other reason do I need?"

Hawke threw her hands into the air, storming across the courtyard toward Aveline. Good. Let them arrest him. Let him be thrown into jail and rot for what he did. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Fenris lowered his gaze back to his hands once more.

A few moments later, someone sat beside him at the base of the statue. This was unusual -- he'd been expecting Aveline to stand over him and shout. Varric, then. He turned, a retort ready for the meddling dwarf, only to find himself meeting Carver's dark, soulful eyes instead.

"So..." said the templar.

"What do you want?" He couldn't find his usual venom, not today.

"Nothing much." The lie was absurd. Here, in the middle of a riot, they were gathered, ready to face down Meredith, and Carver Hawke was pretending he wanted 'nothing much'?

"Don't insult me."

Carver sighed. "Look... you and Anders were... close?"

Fenris didn't bother with a reply. He just turned to glare back at his hands, spending his energy on holding back an unseemly display of emotion. He wasn't sure what emotion. Maybe he'd get lucky and it'd be rage.

Carver was quiet for a few moments before he went on. "When Bethany died, I didn't know what to do with myself at first. I just had to keep on my feet, keep moving."

"Did you."

"I suppose it's a little different. I didn't kill her. She didn't plan to blow up the templar barracks, either."

"The chantry."

"The what?"

"It was the chantry."

"Maker," whispered Carver. "This riot would have been so much worse if--"

"I know."

To Fenris' shock, Carver clapped a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. "Then I'm glad you did."

"Not going to arrest me, are you?"

"Why? You saved Kirkwall, like as not. Certainly saved the Grand Cleric, anyway."

"Suppose I'm a hero then." Fenris swallowed. A hero was the last thing he felt like. Not now.

"Suppose so." Carver sighed. "They said I was a hero too, after Ostegar. Didn't get me much of anywhere. I suppose I was lucky: I survived when everyone else died. Didn't feel lucky, either."

"Why are you telling me this?" Fenris' voice sounded far away even to his own ears.

"After Ostegar, after Lothering fell and Bethany died, after my whole life dissolved in a pox-cursed week, I could have used someone to... I don't know. To sit and not blame me, I supposed. To tell me it wasn't my fault. That I wasn't to blame for the Maker's plan."

"The Maker's plan." Now he found the scorn that had deserted him earlier.

"Sure. What else would you call it? Something, somewhere, is making sense of all this. Folks like us, we just can't see the whole story."

"You're so certain. What if the Maker is a lie? What if there's nothing out there but our own petty squabbles, going on and on forever?"

Carver shrugged. "I don't know. Seems better to imagine there is a plan, I guess. That things happen for a reason."

Fenris sighed, looking up at Carver. "You're awful at comfort."

"I know." Another shrug, and a twitch of his lips, a hint of a smile. "I've never been good at being nurturing."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Carver shook his head. "Nothing. Just, I'm not very manly, is all."

"Manly." Fenris blinked. "You're worried about being _manly._ "

"I worry about a lot of things no-one else seems to worry about."

Fenris shook his head. "Alright. So you've been through this before and you want to give advice. What advice do you have for me then?"

Carver smiled then, a real smile. "Just keep moving. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Don't give up. Maybe it'll work out, maybe it won't, but you can't waste time wallowing in what might have been."

Fenris took a deep breath, let it out. He finally lowered his hands, getting to his feet. "Well. That's simple enough, I suppose."

~*~

_Why should I bother getting up?_ The dusky elf grumbled silently, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. His back ached, his hips ached, his arms ached, his shoulders ached, his heart ached. _What's the point? I may as well lay here until I rot._

They'd won the battle. Kirkwall was 'saved'. They were 'heroes'. Nevermind that the unrest had set off a war, each side blaming the other for the collapse of order. Nevermind that Kirkwall had burned for days, might never recover. Nevermind that all the strong leadership was dead, too, and word of the Rites of Annulment had spread just far enough to cause a revolt among the three nearest Circles. Nevermind that Anders was gone.

What was the point of going on? Of getting up, of facing another day? It would only hurt, in the end. Everything hurt, in the end.

"Knock knock!" He didn't think Carver could be that aggressively cheery, but the boy was relentless. Today, from the smell of it, he'd brought tomato soup. Yesterday's stew remained uneaten on the desk, Fenris unwilling to get up to bother with it. "Feeling any better today?"

"Of course not."

"That's a good elf," he joked, reaching for Fenris' shoulder with his bare hand. The elf stiffened, about to warn him off, but there was no time. All he could do was brace for impact.

The pain never came. Instead there was a muted tingling, then a blessed numbness spreading through the shoulder. _It... doesn't hurt?_

"Come on," said Carver, utterly unaware of the miracle he'd performed. "Let's get you up. Today I'm dragging you out of that bed, like it or not."

Maybe there was a reason to get up after all. "One foot in front of the other," Fenris murmured, feeling hope for the first time in days.

"One foot in front of the other."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the fic! Thanks to @Kaelas for being my beta. I am planning a sequel but I probably won't start right away.


End file.
